The Hater and the Whisk
by zookitty
Summary: A psychic would have seen it coming. Despite common belief...Shawn Spencer was not psychic. Henry, Shawn, Lassiter. Story 1 in the Not Everybody Likes Psychics Series
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **Hey friends, since psychfic is being remodeled I'm gonna continue to move the rest of my stories over here. This one is completely written so part 2 will be up soon. I hope you all enjoy.

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A psychic would have seen it coming.

Despite common belief Shawn Spencer was not a psychic.

Shawn did notice the kid was acting nervous. He kept shuffling from one foot to the other, twirling the string on his jacket. Shawn also noticed the boy's eyes move to something over the fake psychic's shoulder. By that time it was too late.

A psychic would have seen them coming. In fact, a psychic may not have stopped his bike in the first place; maybe not even gotten out of bed that morning, or at the very least a psychic would not have taken off his helmet.

Shawn very rarely wished his powers were real. Knowing the future just seemed like a hassle, and a real psychic would not get into half the crazy situations Shawn enjoyed so much; but as something hard collided with the back of his leg and something sharp ripped across his shoulder…Shawn Spencer really wished he was psychic.

And this had started out as such a good day.

_Shawn straddled his Norton, surveying the world around him. The sun was shinning—ok, so this was Santa Barbra and one would be hard pressed to find a day where it wasn't shinning—there was a crime scene primed to be crashed, and though Gus was out of town Mrs. Pickles still hadn't had her kittens yet. _

_So it was then, on the way to the crime scene that he passed a warehouse…and all this started._

_"Hey you! You're the psychic!" the call sounded harmless, excited even. Shawn smiled to himself, secure in the knowledge that this was a good day and nothing ever went wrong on good days. He pulled over to the curb and saw the source of the yell running up. It was a kid of about fourteen, wearing a baggy old jacket and a cap that couldn't seem to keep from falling over his blue eyes. The first thing Shawn noticed was that it was far too hot for such a jacket. The second thing was the kid's nervous shuffle. Excited maybe? But it just seemed off to the perceptive pseudo psychic._

_"You are the psychic?" the kid asked…hopefully?_

_"That's me, Shawn Spencer," he replied still feeling ill at ease. Still, this was just a kid. _

_Maybe he's worried I'll divine where he really was last night when he promised his parents he was doing homework, Shawn considered._

_"M' Jimmy," the kid offered. That was when his eyes shifted._

Shawn collided with the unforgiving pavement. He tired to fiend off his attackers but a boot to the gut quickly ended that.

"How do you like that psychic!" one of the spat at him. Shawn curled up protectively, as the jeers and abuse continued. He forced his mind to focus through the pain. How many voices were mocking him? They all blended with the barrage of kicks. He recklessly forced open his eyes trying to get a glimpse, a chance…anything.

His eyes met with two scared blue eyes, as Jimmy looked down at him in obvious horror.

Suddenly the attack stopped and whoever they were drew back. A shadow fell across his vision and the fake psychic lifted his head as much as he could manage. A face hovered over him. Shawn tried to commit it to his photographic memory but the face was to blurry…his vision was blurry?

"You think your so tough psychic?" the voice growled, venom dripping from his words. A glint of silver flashed in front of Shawn's eyes, and even his cloudy mind knew this was not good.

"You may have everyone else fooled, but not me," the man whispered. Before Shawn could croak out a response, the knife swiped across his cheek. Shawn sucked in a breath, but that only hurt more.

Chu-chuc. A shot gun? Shawn could not seem to get that part to fit in with everything happening, none of these dark blurs held a shotgun.

"What's going on here?" An older gruff voice asked.

Suddenly all the dark blurry thugs scattered and Shawn had never felt more relieved. He forced himself up, his vision clearing slightly as he saw his rescuer, the nice one with the big gun.

"You alright kid?" he asked kneeling down beside Shawn. The man had speckled gray hair and brown eyes that had seen hardship, but the lines on his face suggested he was no stranger to laughing.

"M'k," Shawn slurred pulling himself up to a sitting position. Pain flared through his middle. He grimaced noticeably.

"Sure you are," the man replied skeptically. "I'll call you an ambulance."

"No, I'm ok…really," Shawn replied, his mind beginning to clear. "They just roughed me up a bit."

"Yeah I noticed," the man replied shaking his head. "I haven't seen anything like that in a long time."

"Retired cop?" Shawn asked knowingly.

"Yeah. Look I'm gonna call the ambulance now."

"No it's ok. I'll be fine." He looked the man over carefully. "Besides you won't want to keep your wife waiting…" Shawn cast a look at the shot gun. "and…teenage daughter?"

"How did you know?" The man started in surprise.

"Shawn Spencer, head psychic of the SBPD," he answered sticking out his hand. The man took it in his own rough one.

"Sam Nelson, retired SBPD beat cop." The man took Shawn's arm, carefully pulling him to his feet. "Are you sure you're gonna be fine?"

"Right as rain." At that point Shawn would have normally lunched into a monologue about how right rain could ever possibly be, but he was just too tired. "Well, Sam Nelson…I am in your debt." The man waved it off.

"Just get your face stitched up and we'll call it even," Sam replied. The fake psychic lifted his hand to his cheek and brought it back red.

Shawn wanted to argue but more pressingly he wanted sleep. So with that he gave a pained smile and headed to his bike, trying very hard not to limp.

The Norton rumbled to life under him, which at the moment was not a pleasant feeling. He pulled on his helmet, instantly cringing as it bumped against his injured cheek, and began driving back to his apartment with thoughts of the warm couch waiting for him.

--

His first thought was, _that cloud looks like a pineapple._

His second thought was a bit more cognitive. _Why the heck am I staring at the sky?_

Shawn shut his eyes and focused. He remembered heading back to his apartment after talking to that Nelson guy…but what then? He began to pick himself up and his vision instantly swam. _That's right. _He was driving when suddenly the road wouldn't seem to sit still. Shawn was notoriously reckless, but he generally avoided putting others lives in danger. So, he pulled over for a minute to get his bearings and then…whump, he was on the ground.

As much as Shawn hated to admit it—and he really really hated to admit it—he needed help.

Laying his head back against the grass he fumbled with his cell phone. He pulled it up and hit 2 on his speed dial. Lies about his bike running out of gas ran through his mind, but when the answer came on the other end there was only one thing he could say.

"Dad, I need help." His voice must have sounded about as good as he felt because there was urgency in the reply.

"Where are you?"

--

Henry had been having a good day. He went fishing, then as the sun rose over the ocean the rays of light made the whole thing sparkle. Hey, he may be a man but even still he could admit that had been just down right beautiful.

He had just arrived home feeling hungry when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID.

"Shawn," he replied about ready to lunch into the list of things his son had promised to do that week.

"Dad, I need help."

The blood drained from his face. The pain in his son's voice was so tangible Henry could feel it in his gut.

"Where are you?"

His son's reply was even more disheartening.

"Somewhere…uh...north of my apartment." The words were spoken so quietly he had to strain to hear them.

"Ok, kid I'll be right there."

Henry had always preached about proper driving, but that day he broke every traffic law he knew and didn't slow until he came to Shawn's apartment. His eyes scanned the scenery.

The first thing he saw was the bike. Henry pulled over quickly, his eyes locked on the abandoned vehicle. It looked roughed up. Scratches down the sides but not bad enough for a crash. But as he got out of the truck he realized the bike had nothing on the person lying beside it.

Shawn was a mess. His shirt was covered in dirt and traces of blood. A bruise was steadily forming on his face and his chin had obviously been scraped from hitting concrete a little too hard.

He looked up as Henry came over. The older Spencer would have been relieved that at least his son was responsive if it hadn't been that when Shawn turned to him, Henry got to see the other side of his son's face.

The huge cut running across his cheekbone was unmistakable. A knife?

Shawn pulled himself up, wincing at the motion. Henry quickly kneeled down, laying a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"You look like heck," was the only thing Henry could muster. Shawn laughed slightly, grimacing as the motion sent pain through his midsection.

"Nice to see you to," he replied. Henry took another minute to regain himself.

"Ok kid, let's get you out of here."

It was a true testament to how badly off Shawn was that he didn't try and fight. His father carefully lifted Shawn to his feet, half helping half carrying him to the car. As Henry helped him into the car he took the chance to subtly examine him further. Shawn was moving carefully, leaning mostly on one leg. His breathings was purposefully shallow and his movements slightly disorientated.

"What about my bike?"

"I'll go back for it," Henry replied absently. He cast sideways glances at his son as they drove. The kid was leaning heavily against the car door, already touching the rim of unconsciousness. Henry realized that his many questions would have to wait.

Several silent minutes passed before Shawn sat up straight.

"You missed your turn," he accused.

"Kid, you need a hospital," Henry raised a placating hand. "It's not up for negotiation Shawn."

"What can a doctor tell me that I don't already know?"

"Like what? That you have at least one broken rib?" Henry retorted. "Or how bout what's wrong with your leg?" He looked into Shawn's defiant eyes. "You can't hide anything from me kid." Shawn reared to snap back, but there was something in his father's eyes that stopped him.

The anger was there, but only on the surface. A little of the concern Henry was feeling leaked into his eyes and caught Shawn off guard.

"I'm taking you to the hospital and that's final," his father stated firmly.

"Fine," he replied turning to the window, a grin creeping onto his features.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **Chapter 2 is here! Woohooo! I hope you all enjoy. Thanks a billion times to my kind loyal reviewer **mariethorne**! You rock

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**Chapter 2:**

Henry walked down the cold hallway. He really could not blame Shawn for hating hospitals. They were cold, hectic and uncomfortable. That and hospitals always meant one thing to the retired cop. Waiting.

Henry could count on one hand the times he had actually went to the hospital for his own health needs. Every other visit was about Shawn. He did not even want to think about the amount of time he spent in the hospital waiting room. Waiting for news on his kid. Waiting for some doctor in a white lab coat to come change his life in one way or another.

"Right this way Mr. Spencer," the pretty brunette nurse said as she opened the door for him.

Henry took a breath and stepped inside. His eyes instantly went to his son. Shawn sat up on the hospital bed, looking even drowsier than when Henry brought him in. The kid turned to him giving a slight smile, the fact that half of his mouth did not follow suit looked almost laughable. At least it would have if it wasn't for the all too obvious reason for this. The stitching across his cheekbone was a little to reminiscent of a horror movie. The paleness of his skin only added to this persona; the bruises standing out too sharply. The retired cop hoped Shawn did not catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror before the stitches were removed. The last thing he needed was a thirty year old going around moaning with his arms outstretched all day.

Henry sighed. He could not imagine how bad it must feel.

He returned his attention to the nurse, as her voice broke through his reverie.

"The doctor has prescribed some medicine for the pain. He needs to come back in a week to make sure everything is healing up properly, and until than he should rest and try and stay put as much as possible." The last bit of advice she aimed at Shawn with a meaningful glare. He raised his hands in surrender, but the anesthetic kept him silent.

"So he'll be ok to go home?" Henry asked.

"With supervision yes," she replied.

"Trust me, he's not getting out of my sight," the older Spencer answered, ignoring Shawn's hands moving in protest. She smiled approvingly.

"I'll bring up a wheelchair."

Shawn gave a long suffering groan, but Henry's crossed arms put an end to that. The younger still continued to look indignant, albeit quietly. Leaning against the pale wall Henry let his mind wander back about an hour.

_"Mr. Spencer."_

_ "How is he?"_

_ "The laceration on his cheek will need stitches; he has four broken ribs and bruising on his face, midsection and legs. The abrasion on the right side of his face is infected. His knee obviously suffered some form of blunt force trauma, which strained the tendons. But under the circumstances his injuries are relatively minor," the doctor replied honestly._

_ "Under the circumstances?" Henry questioned._

_ "You aren't aware of how he suffered these injuries?"_

_ "He wasn't awake enough to tell me," the father replied, "Why? Did he mention it to you?" The doctor shook his head._

_ "No, but the cut across his cheek was definitely from a knife, and his bruises look like they were caused by a boot."_

Henry looked up as the nurse returned with the wheelchair.

"You ready to go, kid?" he asked turning to Shawn, just to find an unresponsive lump in his place. Henry gave his best long suffering sigh and walked over, tapping the pseudo psychic on the face. "Shawn…" Tap. Tap. "Shawn?"

"He's out," the nurse commented unnecessarily. Henry bit back the 'you think' on his lips.

"Can you help me out?" he asked instead. The nurse pushed the chair closer, and Henry carefully lifted his son helping him down into the chair, which would have been a whole lot easier if the kid wasn't completely limp.

The brunette nurse smiled affectionately, obviously finding this scene adorable. She gentle adjusted the chair, but Henry didn't miss her slip something into Shawn's pocket. He rolled his eyes. Only his son could get a date when he was unconscious.

--

He felt so warm. Shawn snuggled into the warmth, deciding that waking up was entirely overrated. He felt light, though he really couldn't explain that. There was a slight pain in his side, but it was distant…too distant to distract from the comfort of this warm couch…couch?

His eyes fluttered open quickly and found himself staring at the ceiling. He knew that ceiling. He pushed himself up and instantly regretted the decision. The small ache in his side flared with the moment sending tendrils of burning pain through his side, darkness dancing in front of his eyes. A strong hand was instantly on his shoulder, guiding him back to the couch.

"Easy, easy." The familiar voice was uncharacteristically comforting. As his vision cleared Shawn looked up at his father's face. "Not one of your best ideas kid," Henry growled, but the worry was there, clear in his eyes. Shawn panted as the pain began to diminish, though not leaving completely.

The pseudo psychic began to get up much slower this time, a hand was instantly on his arm…helping him. Shawn sent a thankful glance at his father. Now that his mind was clearing he looked around the house in confusion.

"How did I get here?" he asked, his voice still slurred from the numbing. Henry smirked.

"You were out cold in the hospital so I dragged you here. You're gonna be my guest for a while…doctors orders," the father responded with what Shawn could have sworn was a sadistic smile.

Shawn groaned, leaning his head against the couch. He normally would put up a fight, but normally there wasn't a dose of painkillers pumping through his veins. As it was he was finding it hard to focus, and the drugs in his system were making it hard to stay mad. Why was he mad in the first place? Did it matter?

He let his heavy eye lids fall shut. The darkness was good, the couch was warm. He'd complain later.

It was several minutes before Shawn forced his eyes open again. His father was still there, part of his weight leaning against the coffee table. Even in his compromised state, Shawn could see the silent debate going on in Henry's mind. The younger Spencer knew what Henry wanted to ask. At that moment Shawn had no desire to answer.

"So you have anything to eat?" the son asked, pushing off his drowsiness.

"Yeah, I was working on some pancakes," Henry replied, standing awkwardly after the position he had been in.

"Mmmmhm, pancakes," Shawn replied approvingly. The retired cop rolled his eyes, muttering something that Shawn didn't try to hard to make out. The fake psychic closed his eyes, listening to the familiar sounds.

After all the time he spent running from this place, the familiarity was actually somewhat comforting on a deeper level. The creak of that third floor board, the squeak of the couch spring when he shifted, the swish of cabinets opening in the kitchen, the sound of metal against a bowl. Shawn smirked.

"Are you using a whisk?"

"Yes Shawn I'm using a whisk. It just so happens that a whisk is better at mixing ingredients more thoroughly…" Henry trailed off as he walked around the couch. Shawn stared up at him with a down right dopey grin, but it wasn't mocking…it was something else this time. "…then a spoon." The retired cop walked back to the kitchen, pouring the batter into the frying pan. His mind kept traveling back to the doctor's words. It was undeniable.

He needed to know what happened.

--

Shawn waited till his father left than began assessing his injuries. He had a vague memory of the doctor explaining things to him, but they probably should have done that _before _giving him his first dose.

His ribs were quite obviously broken and he was again sporting the knee brace—though he'd had enough of it last time—also his face felt funny. No, that statement was ridiculous. It didn't feel _funny_ at all. It hurt…a good bit. He raised his hand carefully touching his cheek. The stitches felt like a wire caterpillar on his cheek. Suddenly he had the mental image of his face being attacked by little wire caterpillar robots. That was so going to be the next movie on Sci-Fi Saturday.

A knock distracted him from his less than focused stupor.

"Dad…door." Shawn smirked. Maybe this whole being holed up on the couch thing wasn't as bad as he first thought.

Henry glared as he walked by the couch and pulled the door open.

"What can I do for you Detective?"

Shawn craned his neck hoping against hope it was Juliet. Henry stepped back and…

"Spencer," came the growl. So not Juliet.

"Lassie face!" Shawn replied his goofy smile looking entirely fake against the backdrop of bruised face and tired eyes. Lassiter walked through the door obviously in a mood.

"Spencer you…" he stopped when he caught sight of the psychic. "…you look horrible."

"Aww thanks Lassie, but really you didn't have to come all this way just to say that."

"What are you doing here Detective?" Henry asked, before the situation could escalate as Shawn had a way of doing.

"A retired SBPD cop called in a crime today. He said a group of men attacked a man today outside his home…."

"You want me for the case?" Shawn asked, hiding his nervousness.

"He informed us," the head detective continued as if the Shawn hadn't spoken. "that the man was claiming to be the head psychic for out department…"

"You have another…"

"…names Shawn Spencer."

The fake psychic closed his mouth. He couldn't see his father from this angle, but Lassiter's glare undoubtedly had nothing on the older Spencer. With no foreseeable way out of this Shawn was suddenly hit with the notion that he was going to die.

--

"I'll keep an eye on him Mr. Spencer," Gus assured the man who had become like his second— and slightly anal—father. Henry nodded approvingly. He was pretty sure Gus was half the reason Shawn had lived this long.

"I have to run some errands, I'll be back soon," he replied.

"Don't hurry," Shawn replied with a far too innocent tone. Gus waited till he heard front door close before he turned his attention to his worse-for-the-wear best friend.

"So were those bruises from before or after your dad and Lassiter got a hold of you?" Gus asked, crossing his arms.

"Can you get injured by tongue lash?" Shawn asked, pouting slightly. Gus rolled his eyes.

"Of all the stupid…" the pharmaceutical salesman muttered. "You could have at least told me." Shawn seemed to find the floor extremely interesting and Gus sighed, standing and striding over to the kitchen. He returned with a bottle of pills and a glass of water. "Go on, it's time for your pain meds." Shawn took them willingly, downing them in one quick gulp.

"Gus it's not really a big deal," Shawn finally answered. He instantly wished he hadn't as Gus rounded on him with a glare—everyone was doing that lately.

"Not a big deal! Shawn, you said yourself that guy was gonna kill you."

"No, when Lassiter asked if there was intent to kill, I said maybe…there's a difference." The pseudo psychic yawned. It had been a long day full of pain and quite a bit of yelling. The sooner the drugs took him off to dreamland, the better. At least his dad had called Gus after the little shouting session. Most likely it was to give Henry a break from him, but Shawn was glad for it. Shawn knew Gus would fuss for a while, but only out of concern not some sick desire to prove how much of a screw up Shawn was.

The pseudo psychic yawned again, sinking deeper into the couch that had been his sanctuary through his trying day. He felt Gus' hand on his shoulder, helping him so he wouldn't strain himself. He smiled remembering how Henry had done that when he first woke up.

"I'm not gonna drop this just because your sleepy Shawn."

"I know," he replied, knowing that Gus would drop it…at least for now. Shawn let his eyelids drop, it really was comfortable here.

Gus watched his friend sleep for awhile. He had been beside himself when he got the call from Henry. After all the times Shawn had gotten himself hurt one would think the worry would lessen…but it didn't.

Honestly, his best friend looked horrible; but he was gonna be alright or Henry wouldn't have left his side for a minute. Despite the arguments and cheap shots they took at each other Gus saw through it. They cared about each other far more than they would ever admit, and even if Shawn couldn't see it…Henry was worried.

Gus was notably anxious himself. The people who did this were still out there, and since Shawn couldn't identify any faces it would be hard to catch them. Still, Lassiter and Juliet were on it and that was encouraging. Despite the fun Gus and Shawn—well mostly Shawn—had at the head detective's expense, Gus actually had a lot of respect for him and his Junior partner. Gus was also sure that the fact that this was Shawn would make them more determined…though Lassiter would never admit it. Gus laughed, realizing just how dysfunctional they all were.

--

"Thanks for coming along Detective," Henry said shutting the truck door behind him. The detective shrugged walking up beside him.

"I hate this thing," Lassiter commented as they walked up to Shawn's Norton.

"You and me both," Henry muttered.

"We could just leave it here." The head detective hadn't meant to say that out loud but Henry only smiled, showing he obviously had considered it.

"Its gonna rain," was the only response he offered. Lassiter nodded. Henry really didn't know why he was out here getting that death trap, but he needed to do _something_. He really wanted to find a certain thug and pound his face in, but currently that wasn't an option.

"We'll find them Henry," the detective promised, as if he read the other man's mind. "We've had a problem with gangs lately, I doubt it was personal." He walked around to the other side of the bike.

Henry narrowed his eyes. Like that made it better? He grabbed the handle bar and the side rim ready to lift when he noticed that Lassiter hadn't followed suit.

"What?"

The head detective met his eyes with an obviously startled. Henry walked around the bike to see what caught Lassiter's attention and felt his gut tighten.

Both sides of the bike had been keyed, but on this side words were written.

_R.I.P Psychic._

The End…to be continued in the next story of the series, "Of Fathers Day and Switchblades."

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**End Notes: **Ok everyone keep your eyes peeled for "Not Everybody Likes Psychics" Story 2

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